


What's in a name?

by Savasta_101



Series: What's in a name? works [2]
Category: Harry Potter - Fandom
Genre: AU, Crack, Harry's a bit moody, Reborn - Freeform, Severus Snape is a sweetheart
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-29
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2020-09-28 21:46:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20432945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Savasta_101/pseuds/Savasta_101
Summary: Harry, reborn Lyle Evans, was not intending to take his mother's place. Yet somehow, he still exists (paradoxes are odd things), and Sirius Black - should not be nearly so distracting.





	1. What's in a name?

18th June, 1996

It was a good night for something bad to happen. The fog wetly clung to them, as the thestrals jerked them up and down, up and down, like a malfunctioning fairground ride. And beneath it all, lurked a sense of wrongness - crackling in the air, like Harry's own magic was warning him to turn back. He shifted uncomfortably, and Ron noticed. "You all right mate?" he yelled over the wind, and Harry just urged the thestral on in response. Sirius was in danger.

Later, Harry lifted the prophecy from its shelf and his magic practically hissed in response. Then all hell broke loose.

The spells were coming from everywhere and nowhere, Order members and Death Eaters at each others' throats. It was like some warped light show - pretty bluebell beams that slit throats with a spray of blood, and in the middle of it all - Sirius.

"No." screamed Harry, when he saw Bellatrix's spell shooting towards Padfoot, and leapt in front of the curse, arms flailing wildly. The sickly red spell collided with the prophecy, clutched to Harry's chest, and came out through his back with a deathly chill, something slick coating his insides. And then Harry was falling, falling through the silvery veil, nestled by the empty loudness and soft whispers. "Harry." said a gentle voice, defined now. "Mum," he tried to say, but could not speak, so Harry reached as though through treacle, for his mum - and collided with something else. Something ancient and old. And then there was nothing.

30th January, 1960

Harry woke up - was reborn, he later realised - to bright light that had him blinking wildly, and - for some reason - shrieking like a banshee. There must also have been something in his eyes, because the giant shapes that leaned over him were blurry.

But he could recognise that nasally voice anywhere. "So this is my new brother?" said Petunia - in a familiarly disgusted tone. "But I asked you for a sister." she said petulantly, with a stamp of some buckled shoe, and Harry screamed louder than he ever had before.

His name was Lyle Evans, cooed by a woman far too sweet to have birthed Petunia. And he was trapped, with limbs too weak to move away from his new sister's cruel little pinches, and a head far too heavy to lift.

It was a slow-moving hell, leaving Harry plenty of time to think over his miserable, humiliating existence. He'd never met a sister called Lily, yet months crept by without any new pregnancy, and Harry nurtured an awful suspicion. 'Lyle' was awfully close to 'Lily', wasn't it? And there was just the right age gap between him and the she-devil. Slow tears dribbled down chubby cheeks. 'What had he done?' Harry wondered miserably. What had he done...

30th January, 1964

Time only confirmed it. Harry shouldn't exist, he acknowledged, chewing birthday cake to his new parents' delight. He'd stolen Lily Evans' place in the universe, but the world moved on regardless - and somehow, somehow, Harry was still alive. It was troubling: the sort of thing that would delight Hermione, but it just made Harry's head ring. So he focused, selfishly, on the Victoria sponge.

His second childhood, Harry gratefully realised, was going to be far easier than his first. Rose and John Evans were doting parents, and Harry was living the suburban dream. His main problem - aside from a crippling existential crisis - wore polished Mary Jane shoes and tea dresses. It also thought a torturous game of dress-up was the perfect birthday present.

"Stay still." Petunia hissed, tugging Harry's short mop of hair into a ponytail. He knew better than to wince. And then a silk dress was being slipped over skinny limbs, and Petunia plonked him in front of the mirror. "There." she declared in triumph. "Now you look like a proper girl."

Harry didn't really. His knees were too knobbly, and for all Petunia's efforts Harry was still a brother: all sharp edges and a scrappy grin, with a mop of red hair plonked on top. "Thanks." he muttered, with the genuineness of Lucius Malfoy, and his aunt - sister. Beamed.

It was an odd expression to see - softening her face, until Petunia looked remarkably like an actual child, and Harry could almost forget the bony, harsh visage that would take the place of happily-flushed pudge. Almost. But eleven years in a cupboard bred a strong grudge.

Harry was jerked out of his thoughts by a small hand, soft and cold, wrapping around his even smaller one. "Come on." ordered Petunia. "We're going to show you off." 'Showing off' turned out to mean being dragged in front of their parents, Rose oohing and aahing with fond amusement, and John shooting them a look of disapproval over his newspaper, though with a glimmer of laughter in his eye.

Harry posed, awkwardly, for a polaroid photo: Petunia standing next to him, chest puffed out with pride, and Harry looking as though he wanted nothing more than to sink into the floor. Even Bellatrix would've been better than this.

Harry drew the line at being paraded around the neighbourhood - he had some pride. But Petunia was tugging at him with all the strength of a determined bull, and the shoes she'd slipped him into were too big - Harry tripped over his own feet and stumbled backwards over the doorstep, stomach dropping and world slowing as he prepared himself for the hard fall. It never came.

Harry opened his eyes very, very slowly, and met Petunia's wide gaze. He was floating an inch over the floor. The 'bubble' popped at Harry's panic, and he dropped with a slight "oomph" of pain. He slowly got up, and waited for the shouts of 'freak' but they never came. Instead, Petunia's face twisted into a ... grin? "That," she said slowly. "was so. Cool. Do it again!" And then Petunia shoved him happily over. This time, Harry's magic did not appear.

"Sorry." said Petunia weakly at the hospital, sitting at one side of Harry's bed. Harry offered a sort of groan. "But," she said, dropping her voice to a not-so-hushed whisper, "it was worth it." Harry's stitched head did not agree. "Now we know we're magic! And ..." Petunia hesitated. "maybe you're not so bad for a boy."

She was a monster, one side of Harry argued - the side that flinched away from touch, and wanted a family more than anything. But a voice, that sounded suspiciously like Hermione, argued this wasn't Old Petunia. This Petunia wasn't truly awful, not yet. So Harry, against all his better judgment, wished as hard as he could for a peace offering.

A single flower plucked itself from the vase next to his bed, and wobbled slowly through the air to Petunia's hair. "Oh," she breathed in wonder, eyes sparkling, and Harry allowed himself a small grin in return. Because she wasn't so bad for a Petunia.


	2. The magic of treacle tarts

February 21st, 1969

Rose Evans was smiley and kind; she always had white flour smeared in her brilliantly red hair. John Evans was stern with a harsh gaze - bred on war rations and air raids. Perhaps that made it all the more surprising, when it was Rose who snapped.

When Harry was nine he brought a flower back to life. He bled red back into withered petals, Petunia watching in wonder next to him, and scribbling down notes into a little notebook. It was slow work: each petal furling individually outwards, and they were far too caught up to hear calls for tea.

Rose Evan's calls died in her throat at the sight of them. But speech came back to her all too soon: "Witchcraft," she said, voice trembling and loaded with anger, and then she was dragging Harry, kicking and yelling, and all too afraid to hurt his mother with his own accidental magic.

She read to him from her lovingly held Bible, told Harry that witches burnt - that although he was a boy, he had still sinned. And then she 'beat it out of him'. Strong, relentless kicks, each one a burning impact on his side. Rose made Petunia - trembling and white-faced - watch. And then she held her daughter tenderly by the shoulders and said, "Do you understand 'Tuney?" Petunia looked determinedly at the ground. Soft fingers - brushed with sugar and yeast - tilted the child's chin upwards. "I said," came Rose's voice, steely. "do you understand?"

Petunia met her mother's gaze and nodded.

Though magic was wondrous and bright, she understood that some people were scared of it. She understood that she'd have to help Lyle hide it.

Rose, satisfied, left, her Bible held very carefully under arm and not a hair out of place. Petunia waited until their mother was out of sight to rush to Lyle's crumpled side. "Are you all right?" she asked worriedly.

"I'm fine, it's the others who were attacked by wrackspurts." he mumbled in response, with a twitch of a smile: some inside joke that had him laughing, which turned into hacking up little globlets of blood. Petunia very, very carefully helped Lyle up, and they made an odd, stumbling pair on the trek from the garden to his bedroom.

Then, she laid a cold washcloth over his head. "Rest." Petunia commanded, because she was the older sister and her word was law. Lyle hesitated as he always did, never quite letting his guard down, but eventually his eyes shut.

When his breathing deepened, Petunia took the red flower out her pocket and turned it over in pale hands. She'd meant to press it between the pages of her notebook, so she'd know what type of flower was magical - what she might be able to revive like Lyle later ('though magic never does work for you,' a small voice whispered mockingly in her head).

But that was the before. Petunia trod the flower beneath her foot. Magic was simply too dangerous.

July 16th, 1969

Severus Snape watched covetously, as a small boy walked through the park, his sister hurrying to catch up. When she did, she grabbed his wrist with white fingers: "Mother's going to be worried." she said primly. The boy shrugged her off a little too harshly (like Severus, he didn't like to be touched).

"We've got awhile yet." he said simply, and anticipation built in Severus. The other boy was going to use magic again, he knew he would. The sister knew it too, because her face was bleached of colour. "Mother doesn't like it." she tried again, something heavy and unsaid between them.

"But you do." he said simply, and there was no denying it, as the girl flushed with shame. Severus smirked. Of course a muggle would be in awe of their magic (except him, father greeted magic with fists and cigarette butts).

The boy broke into a run. Gravel broke away under foot, and legs pumped faster and faster, muscles tensing, faster still - and then he leapt, as high as the trees, and hovered in the air for a split second, face filled with utter bliss.

Severus couldn't help his loud whoop, as he emerged from the bushes: pallour sickly with greasy hair, clothed in second-hand clothes. Petunia screamed, and the boy crashed back down to earth with a muttered curse.

"I'm magic too," said Severus, trying to save the situation (and it was falling apart around him). He expected many things: wonder, or even fear.

He didn't expect the boy to snarl "Snape." with disgust and stalk off.

Harry loved flying. It may no longer be in his blood, but it made his magic sing. And in the grimy, industrial town of Cokeworth, a magic-propelled jump was the closest he could get.

Harry had known, objectively, that Snape lived in Cokeworth: he remembered Snape's pensive memories, and his fascination with Lily Evans. But he'd never expected to be nose - one exceptionally long - to nose with the greasy git himself.

It took everything Harry had not to curse the boy - so dejected, and small but still Snape - like his magic ached to. Instead, Harry hissed through gritted teeth, and let Petunia drag him away.

When he was alone, finally, Harry toppled a tree with an angry wave of magic: because Snape could have saved Harry (if only he'd done more than contact Kreacher; gotten over a childish feud and checked on Sirius himself). Snape was a bully.

And Harry was even worse. He'd dragged his friends into danger - and they could be dead for all he knew: clever Hermione and brave Ron, passionate Ginny and even Loony Lovegood - Luna, Harry corrected himself. Just Luna.

No-one, not even Dumbledore, could expect Harry to befriend Snape as his mother once had Harry reasoned. But Harry knew another abused child when he saw one - bruises and oversized clothes - and he didn't have to like him, just make sure he stayed alive.

So a bemused Severus Snape found several beef sandwiches and a treacle tart addressed to him, and practically vibrated with excitement. There was no sender's address, but he didn't need one. This had the boy from the park written all over it. And the spark of excitement inside Severus grew into a tentative flame. A few miles away, Harry Potter shivered in horror.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think the story's going in an interesting direction (cue evil laughter).


	3. And the Prophet came down from the mountain

November 15th, 1970

Severus was lonely. He felt like a shade flitting between the cramped rooms of his house, invisible to his father unless he was drunk - and angry.

He once asked his mother why he could not go to school, like other children, and her face twisted into a nasty snarl. “Why would you want to mix with the muggle filth?”  
Severus decides not to point out that she had married a muggle, who his mother seems to love, although Tobias Snape is more awful than any man that Severus has ever met.

He wonders whether it’s an enchantment, twisting through the air, obscuring his mother’s sight, so she misses the punches and is deaf to Severus’ whimpers. It’s a convenient excuse. Severus chooses to believe it, rather than his mother valuing the strange, twisted beast of a love affair she shares with Tobias over him.

Severus quickly learns that the longer he is out the house, the better, so he takes to scuttling in the shadows between buildings, or walking proudly in the dark depths of the forest (he ignores the Coke bottles and cigarette butts and imagines himself the lord of a grand castle, out for a stroll on his grounds). One day, he is pretending to be a bat, swooping through the edges of the trees, when he stops short.

There is a boy before him. He is taller than Severus, who is rather small for his age, but just as pale - like one of the Elgin marbles, or some mythical fairy, almost glistening in his paleness. And he has wonderful emeralds for eyes, set into his perfect statue of a face, crowned with silky, twisting locks like living flames. He is Severus’ favourite person to watch - so out of place in the grimy darkness of Cokeworth, just like Severus believes himself to be. 

(A small part of him thinks there could be no other reason for them to be here, except to find each other.)

Severus doesn’t like the sister. Her voice grates on him, and she is not nearly so beautiful. He rather viciously thinks Lyle ought to leave her at home, she is clearly not worthy of his time. This is the first thing Severus says to Lyle - after months of treacle tarts and sandwiches being dropped at his doorstep, he had mustered up the courage to return to the park and speak to his saviour. 

As soon as the words leave his mouth, Severus’ heart plummets to his too-tight shoes, and Lyle’s mouth tightens. Severus’ prepares for condemnation, and awaits it like a man before the guillotine, but Lyle only laughs - bubbling, like water.

“Petunia can get on some people’s nerves, but she means well.” Then, more seriously, as though entering the fogs of some distant memory. “Be careful what you say, it could hurt people.” 

“I-I meant no offence.”

“None taken, Severus, was it?” There was something curious about Lyle’s expression as he said that, some repressed mirth behind his eyes, and Severus temporarily worried he was mocking him, though he thought the other boy too kind for that.

“Can I call you Sevvy?” 

Severus shakes his head eagerly up and down, like a puppy. “Of course.”

Harry Potter cackles evilly as soon as he returns to his room, then feels bad and bakes another treacle tart, because Severus really was very skinny.

They meet semi-frequently after that. Cokeworth is a small place after all. And Harry learns to see the flap of an oversized coat in the shadows and feel the weight of a gaze too heavy for its age upon his form.

The third time Harry sees mini-Snape, he is still tense as a bowstring overly tightened. He has to stop bursts of irritation at the movements of Snape’s older self, mirrored in his younger form - the melodramatic swooping, like a suitor from a period drama, or the glower directed only towards Petunia. 

But Harry is starved for the attentions of someone outside his family, so he meets Severus on the grassy knoll, and sends a reluctant Petunia away with promises of a playdate at her mercy later that evening.

“Do you believe in magic?” is the first thing Snape asks, chest puffed out proudly - eager to share his knowledge.

“Yes.” says Harry, and Snape deflates slightly.

“How about a school for wizards?”

“Of course I believe in Hogwarts.” Almost as soon as he says it, Harry wants to slap himself on the forehead. 

Snape is staring at him with utter confusion: “But - you’re a muggleborn unless…” Snape’s eyes are widening with wonder, he kneels on the ground before Harry, like an apostle, and holds up his arms. “Behold, the mighty seer, Lyle Evans.”

Harry decides to go with it.  
“Indeed, I am…the mighty seer Lyle of Number 17 Corn Street.”

“I have so many questions! What am I like in the future? Do I,” Severus looks shyly up at him from beneath his lashes. “become friends with anyone? Am I famous?”

All the words dry up in Harry’s throat, as he stares at Severus. How to tell a little kid that he’d become the follower of a maniac, lose the only person he ever loved, and lead a miserable existence teaching brats potions? 

Harry spreads his arms wide, and assumes a Very Serious expression, staring off into the distance and focusing on a particularly nice, fat cloud.  
“I see,” Harry put on a gravelly voice. “much happiness in your future.”

Severus ooh-ed appropriately.

“And you will form many friendships, young Warlock, and discover a love for potions and conditioner.”

Looking into Severus’ bright eyes, Harry decides he will make that future come true, even if it meant spending time around the most evil git to ever swoop down Hogwarts’ halls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a side note, Harry, or Lyle if you will, is not nearly as beautiful as described! I was just trying to show Severus’ obsession with him. Similarly, Petunia is not utterly evil - she is, at this point, still a little girl - but in Severus’ eyes she’s an awful barrier between him and Lyle.


	4. An Erumpent-level explosion

July 3rd, 1971

Harry was not enamoured with Muggle primary school. Aside from having learnt it all many years before, the way the other children skirted around him - skittish, like gazelles near a lion - made him confront the reality that maybe it wasn’t just Dudley who had pushed the other children away in his first lifetime. 

There was something about powerful magic, bubbling and explosive as it was, that couldn’t be contained by the skin, and it was that lingering sense of otherness that made muggles wary. So, Harry sat alone, and contented himself with thoughts of Hogwarts and wonder, only a few months away.

He caught Petunia watching him sometimes, from across the playground, but then she’d turn away with a haughty glare, because it simply wasn’t good press to be associated with ‘that weirdo’, Lyle Evans. 

Rose would bustle around, preparing roast dinners and cups of tea, dusting and polishing, always just as kind and sweet as before except when her large hand – so large it covered his whole shoulder – would press vice-like into his skin, as she asked “Have you been good?” 

Harry’s answer was always a “Yes.” and just as much of a lie each time. The marks of her fingers would stay as vivid red as Harry’s hair on his pale skin, until his magic kissed them away each night.

July 17th, 1969

One teatime, Harry had told Rose he’d made a friend in the village and she gasped in delight, “Oh that’s wonderful, Lyle darling.” That is, until she heard just who he had ‘be-friended’. “The Snapes.” Rose’s nose wrinkled, like she smelt something foul. “That simply won’t do Lyle. The Snapes aren’t the sort of people you ought to associate with.”

Lyle put on his best angelic expression, making sure his eyes were wide and glistening with the faintest glimmer of a tear, and that his voice wobbled slightly as he spoke. “It’s just, mum, Severus,” Lyle trembled with the effort to not sneer ‘Snape’. “has nothing, and he seems so lonely. It’s the Christian thing to do, isn’t it?”

Rose, quite over-come with emotion, immediately set about preparing food for “That poor Snape boy.” 

July 3rd, 1971

Harry returned from school one day in quite a cheerful mood. The sun, cheerful yellow beams for once illuminating Cokeworth, felt like it had seeped through his skin, warming him, and would provide the perfect excuse for a long afternoon in the woods practising magic. He put his key in the lock, turned it, and froze at the sight of Rose holding an opened letter. The seal of its abandoned envelope held the Hogwarts’ crest.

“Oh, Merlin’s fluffy pink bathrobe!” It was the wrong thing to say. Harry had never seen Rose so angry: not when he knocked over the urn with his great-aunt Violet’s ashes playing football indoors (John was actually quite pleased about that. “Evil old cat lady.” he’d muttered, and Rose whacked him over the head with a newspaper), or even when she’d caught him doing magic. 

“I thought,” she says heavily. “that I’d beat it out of you.”

“Mum,” Harry tries softly, but she holds up a hand. 

“No.” she was tearing up the letter into little shreds, and involuntarily Harry felt tears well up in his eyes.

“That’s not fair.” he blurts out. “It’s my letter!” (time’s fingers glance over his cheek, and Harry re-calls saying the same protest, many years ago).

“And you are My Son.” hisses Rose, flushed violently red, clashing dramatically with her crimson hair. “And I forbid you from going to - to, some Devil’s conclave. In fact, I forbid you from going to any school at all, until we’ve really beaten this out of you.”

A blast of light shoots out of Harry and hits Rose square in the chest. She collapses like a marionette whose strings have been cut.

“What did you do?” cries Petunia, already half-way down the stairs - practically a box seat from which to view the disaster. The shouts must have summoned her. She turns to Lyle, and with a venom he hadn’t heard addressed to him in many years demanded, “Fix her.”

“I don’t know how.” says Lyle shakily.

“You fixed the flower, so fix her.”

Lyle was shivering like he had pneumonia, and the room starts to shake, vases shattering and books falling limply to the florr. Petunia’s hand shoots out and grasps his wrist like the cold touch of a manacle, “Stop it.”

The room stopped shaking.

They both rush to Rose Evan’s crumpled form, and Petunia cradles her cheek in the palm of her hand then, ever the older sister, assumes her battle command. “If you’re going to be so bloody useless, at least call an ambulance so we can fix your mess.”

Harry rushes to the telephone, new and shining blue in a position of pride in the hallway (“Isn’t it lovely darling?”) and twirls the rotary dial. 

“999, how may we help you?”  
“Hello, is anyone there?”

\- “Oh, you’re useless.” Petunia shoves him out the way.  
“Hello, sorry, our mother has - “she glances at Lyle. “fallen over, and she’s unconscious. Our address is number 17 Corn Street in Cokeworth. Okay, thank you very much.”  
She puts the phone down, and jabs Lyle in the chest with one bony finger.

“That. Is the last thing I’ll ever do for you.” And then Petunia hurries to their mother’s side, and cradles Rose’s head in her lap.

Harry did the only thing he could. He ran.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m sorry Harry!  
Also, I’m officially back and will be regularly updating ‘What’s in a name?’. Thanks to ZanderFrae, katthepup, ecartman, Mari and thatkid010 for reviewing (you’re the reason I came back to this story).


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